A Warrior's Reflection
by Illusions of Dreaming
Summary: Fight for your country, your family, your life. War is bloody, very. In a fight for life and country, Horace reflects on the purpose of war. Reflections of a soldier, warrior, man. Oneshot.


**Authors Note:** Hello and welcome to "A Warrior's Reflection". Before explaining, let the credits roll: I DO NOT own Ranger's Apprentice, sad but true. Horace is NOT my character but John Flanagan's. If the summary is not clear, here's a bit more detail. Horace is fighting in a war, he is also reflecting on the virtues, the morals of what he's doing. This story leans more on the philosophical and psychological ways of thinking. This is an ONESHOT. Horace might seem a bit OOC too ;m; sorry! But I will give a detailed explanation for this in the author notes at the end. anyways. This Oneshot is rated **T **for safety. **T** as in language and violence. This is a war scene and even though it is mainly focused on Horace's thoughts, there will be some dead bodies, some blood and gore. If you're not a big fan of sad or deathly scenes, please skip this Oneshot. C: if you're not easily scared... enjoy~

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**Illusions of Dreaming presents:**

_A Warrior's Reflection_

Ah, he's the Oakleaf warrior, a man who carried a title that was well known and feared in many places. He brings justice, peace, he fights for the weak, he stands for what's right and fights off evil. He saves lives.

_How ironic_.

He was just a man, a simple man. With eyes, nose, ears and lips similar to the man he just felled. Once was an orphan, now, a man of justice. The hero of Araluen.

A hero they say. Yet the one in front, choking on his own blood, spat his name like it's venom. Cursing him, the life of the warrior flickered out from his eyes, but Horace knew, the warrior would be dragging a part of him –the Oakleaf warrior, down to hell with him. He knew it, the knight won't be the first or the last –_Ha!_ No, he won't be the last to drag a part of him down to sinners land, he won't. Horace's sword swung in a horizontal ark, drawing a line of red across several knights, the mini explosions of blood came a fraction of a second later. A waterfall that drenched him and his allies.

What was he fighting for?

He cut down another charging man, his sword swiveling in it's deadly dance.

_Who_ was he fighting for?

_Clank!_ A helmet goes rolling.

Exactly how many that cursed him was waiting for him down below? _Hundreds_, _thousands_, _millions_… His sword sang, cutting through air and met flesh and bone. They scream, like tortured animals, like half slaughtered pigs…

Like _humans_.

Horace's eyes closed as a growl ripped from his throat, his blue eyes flashing with anger. _Monster_. The other soldiers sang a different tune from his comrades. _Monster, monster, monster,_ they chanted.

_Hero, hero, hero._

Thrust, block, shield then swift uppercut. Swivel, stab and dodge. Block again. It's different from training drills, there were no mentors calling out commands, he was not holding a wooden sword nor was he hitting inanimate dummies. His ears had turned deaf from the sound of human screams… his enemies' screams. They don't touch him. No, not yet. His sword brought down judgment, an arm flew off. He won't hear their screams until later on, when he sleeps and when there's peace. Only then, they will visit him again.

Vertical strike, another red line paints the trodden down plains. Faintly, he felt something slice through his upper arm, there was no pain. His sword had already swung over to decapitate the offender.

"_For Araluen!"_ Was that his voice? Was that his arm raised with his blood drenched sword? Do they not hear his desperation? Not see the devil there? Why do they listen? Why do they follow and get rejuvenated by a call from him, the monster?

Exhaustion, not from the body but the mind, claimed him. His sword tip sank down on the soggy ground. He did not need to look down to know the grass was soiled, painted with sweat, piss and blood.

_For Araluen?_ He thought sadly, his blue eyes cold and lifeless. _Why do I fight?_ The knight picked up his sword again, the knights in front hesitating from the sight of his bloodied –_damn bloodied _body.

_For the king._ Really? Horace thought blankly as he blocked a weak stroke. _For my kingdom._ He sighed, his sword piercing through flesh and exiting. _For…Cassandra_.

His thoughts stopped for a moment, as he rolled her name around his mind. _Cassandra…_ His arm moved in a wide ark, bashing several warriors away as he charged forward to meet the second line. His lover, his everything, he fights for…

_No._

She no doubt loved him, but she never saw this. Never saw, the _real_ Oakleaf warrior. Red obscured his vision, blood, _it's not mine_. Even blinded, he swung, he heard faint cries then he stepped back clearing his vision. Cassandra was brave, loyal, strong, she's the Queen everyone looked up to, but she was also pampered. As a Queen, a lady, a woman, she _will_ be pampered, for it was a man's job –_my job_, to keep her safe and happy.

But no, Cassandra was not what he really fought for.

_Then what?_ Horace thought bleakly as he jumped aside just in time to dodge a vicious blow. Someone knocked into him, steadied him before pushing back into the crowd again.

"H-help…" He looked down. An enemy, severed from his waist, barely surviving, delirious. _What do you fight for?_ Horace wanted to ask, but a foot crushed the skull of the half man. His ally's foot.

He focused on the battlefield again, his sword humming to life, eager to split, spill and gore more humans. He loathed the thing he carried. Once, he thought he carried it with pride. Now…

He screamed with the enemy, as his sword flashed down. He was fast, but Horace was faster, better and stronger. The knight came tumbling down; his blood paints another layer of cape for Horace. His red cape won't float, his red cape won't fly, his red cape will only sink and cling to his skin, dragging him down. The enemy was not dead, he was writhing on the ground, in pain. Horace turned away from him.

That was the way of the knights.

They were taught justice, virtues, morals and pride on the training grounds. Here, those words were _bullshit_. Here, you cut to create pain. There're no clean deaths for _warriors_ here. You don't spare lives. You wound just deep enough to let them live on the battlegrounds, just deep enough to make sure once they reach their camp clinic, they won't be exiting.

Strategy. The generals laughed.

Torture. That's what Horace would call it.

One wounded, three leaves the stage. One dies, two emotionally bleeds and more outside of the field of men.

_What do you fight for?_ Horace questioned softly as he looked into the enraged eyes of his opponent.

"DIE!" his breath reeked, his eyes angry. Ah… a comrade. _To oblivion,_ Horace sent him.

They fought for their country, their king, their loved ones, and their peace.

So much more different from him. So much more the same.

So what do you do on a battlefield? His sword carved bloody carnage.

HERO.

MONSTER.

MONSTER.

MONSTER.

You can only believe. Horace swept aside an injured knight, left him to bleed. You can only believe that your King, your kingdom, your loved ones and your peace is better. Believe what you're fighting for, WILL be and MUST be better than theirs.

Then.

You close your heart, mind and soul and paint the world red.

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Phew! I'm glad I got this oneshot out of my system! xD I got really pulled in by it's theme, war. I'm an emotional girl and just _thinking _about war, it's consequences, the deaths... makes me depressed. But even so, I kept on writing, because I wish to express my views as well. It's not everything I want to say, there were lots more, but I was too sad to continue. xD If I did, it would only progress into more angst and more gore, and no one wants that xD The reason why I chose Horace and not just any random soldier/knight/warrior on the battlefield is because I wish to connect to the readers here. I adore John Flanagan's writing, yet at the same time, I can't help but notice that Will, Horace, Halt and all the justified characters seem to pick off and kill others easily. Their deaths downplayed. Even if those people deserved it (i don't think ANYONE deserves death done by others) be it thiefs, thugs, bandits... what they did **took** a life. (Let's ignore the wargals for now xD) And I get it. RA is meant for younger readers, no serious death, gore stuff or it'll scare the little guys and they won't ever touch the wonderful series ever again. Therefore I'm going to be the bad guy. This is Horace, OOC Horace and his thoughts.

Thanks for reading! and remember to review you if like it! C': reviews always helps me improve!


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